


What Mary Sees

by NephilimEQ



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clueless Boys, Clueless John, Complete, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, third person observation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: Mary sees how John Watson truly feels about Sherlock's return...and she's okay with it. John and Sherlock. Like tea and crumpets. Never one without the other.





	What Mary Sees

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue is verbatim from the show, everything else is the product of hyper-observation and my own over-active imagination. :)

** What Mary Sees **

When I am at the top of the stairs, I can see John at our table and I can tell, even from this distance, that he is nervous.  The poor man.

As I descend, I think of how he has changed over the past two years since his friend’s suicide.  I can’t tell him, of course, but the only reason why I was in London about a month after that unfortunate turn of events was _because_ of that unfortunate turn of events.  If Sherlock Holmes had been in London, I wouldn’t have stepped foot in it.

My past is my past, but I know that sooner or later our paths would have crossed…most likely _sooner_ , considering that I ended up falling in love with his only friend and his _flat_ mate, no less.  And if Sherlock was alive, he would most certainly have noticed the lie in my face almost instantly, I am sure of it.  Many people in my line of work steer clear of Great Britain because of him, but now that he’s gone, we have become more comfortable with using London as a place to hide. A wonderful city to use for hiding, it is; so many nooks and crannies to disappear into.

When I sit down at the table, I can tell that John is nervous. I quickly deduce that he’s going to be asking me something important tonight.

We’ve only been sitting for a few moments and John is already stumbling over his words.  He probably doesn’t even know that I can tell that there is a bulge in his coat and that he’s simply trying to ask me to marry him.  I am going to say yes, of course, but he doesn’t have to know that.  He should have to say the words.

And then the waiter interrupts and I am trying _so_ very hard not to laugh.  I look at him, smiling and biting my lip at the same time.

But then something happens.

The waiter takes off his glasses and John is standing up and I don’t know what’s going on.

“John?”  He doesn’t respond, instead looking down at the floor and then back up at the man in front of him.  I can see his jaw clench, and his fingers tighten into a fist, all signs of pure, unadulterated rage, but what has brought this on, I don’t know.  “John, what is it? What…?”

I take a closer look at the man in the tuxedo, the man talking to him rapid fire, trying to figure out why he’s reacting this way, and then I realize…

“Well…short version: not dead.”

“Oh no, you’re…?”  “Yes.”  “Oh my god,” I whisper, feeling my hands turn to ice, for reasons other than worrying about John; my own safety comes to mind.

“Not quite.” 

“You died, you jumped off a roof…”

“No.”

“You’re dead!” I manage to get out in a stage whisper, not quite believing what I’m seeing before my very eyes.  My whole life flashes in front of them.

“No,” he replies. “I’m quite sure, I’ve checked.  Excuse me,” he adds, dipping my napkin into my water glass, wiping off the pencil mustache that he had obviously improvised to disguise himself in order to sneak in and masquerade as a waiter.

“Does yours rub off, too?” he says in a light tone, and I want to strangle him.

I can’t hold it in anymore.

“Oh my god, oh my god, do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done…?”

The man who I now know to be Sherlock Holmes suddenly seems to realize that he needs to speak up, and he tries to, once again, speak quickly in order to beat John to the punch, but John’s fist slams into the table and I flinch at the sound of it.

I try to keep talking, saying, “I just, John just can’t keep...” but my words run out, and I don’t know what to say.  The rest is up to the two of them.  And while they take care of that, I silently scramble in my brain, trying to think of a way to keep this man from finding out my true identity.  John _can’t_ know, and I _know_ that Sherlock would tell him in an instant if he knew, even though I’ve barely met him, because I know everything that John has ever told me about him.

“Two years…two years.  I thought…mmm…I thought…you were dead.  Hm?  And you let me grieve?  Hm?  How could you do that?  How?”

Sherlock interjects with, “Wait, before you do anything that you might regret, one question, let me ask just one question…”

The silence is heavy, and then…

“Are you really gonna keep that?”

I can’t help but let out a small laugh, equal parts incredulity and honest to god laughter, because, oh my god, I actually _agree_ with him in his question about John’s mustache!  It’s a bit ridiculous and makes him look so much older than he really is, and Sherlock glances at me, still smiling, and I can’t help but halfheartedly smile at his attempt at levity, and now John is tackling him.

I am not surprised.

We go through two more eateries, where John proceeds to attack him twice more, eventually giving his old friend a cut lip and a broken nose, and in the cab John looks at me and says, “Could you believe his nerve?”

I just smile.

“I like him.”

“What?”

“I like him,” I say a second time, looking out the window.  I don’t know if John knows it, but it’s as plain as day on his face and in his body.  He is thrilled that Sherlock is alive and that he’s back in his life; his body, even as I sit next to him, is humming with an irrepressible energy that I’ve never seen in him before, even though he still claims to be furious with him.

He _is_ furious with Sherlock, but in his own way that’s how he shows how bloody happy he is that Sherlock is back.

I’ve never felt this before with him.  He’s… _alive_.

It’s the only way that I can explain it, and I know that I owe it all to Sherlock Holmes.  My god, if this is what it’s like when John has a legitimate reason to _hate_ him, what must it have been like when they were flatmates and the best of friends?  There must have been so much _energy!_   I want to marry John, now, more than ever, but now, more than _ever_ , I can understand why that would be a mistake…but I don’t care.   I am selfish.  I want some of that vitality for myself.

The next morning, I sit on the bed and read John’s blog out loud, marveling at how, without him even realizing it, his words carry such admiration and devotion in them…and love.

As John shaves, I can’t help but poke fun at him, all the while silently wondering how much our relationship will change now that Sherlock is back in his life.  I know that there is no way to keep him out of it, and I don’t want him to.  However, I know John and I know that he will try to cut him out, just to prove to Sherlock that he can live without him.

It won’t work.

How could anyone go back to the life of a simple doctor after being in a war zone and spending nearly a year of working with the singular, frustrating, yet amazing Sherlock Holmes?

You can’t.  And I know it.

Even as John flirts with me, I can tell that his mind is stuck on Sherlock.  I don’t blame him.  I know that it’s impossible to compete with a man like that one.  So, I won’t try to.  I will simply be myself and hope that John will still choose me.  But even if he chooses me, I know that Sherlock will always remain a part of his life.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding?  Sherlock _is_ his life.

If I can see it, then I am sure that others in their life can see it.  People like Lestrade and Molly.

They belong to each other…

…and I am fine with that.

 

 


End file.
